As we make love, I imagine that we are back in Paris. That there is a bidet in our bathroom. That people are speaking French on the sidewalk below. That around the corner is the little pharmacy where I had to resort to an earthy pantomime to indicate that I required a box of condoms. Where the pharmacist, a handsome woman of about thirty-five with dark, humorous eyes, smiled knowingly at me when I paid for them.

Millicent’s adorable ass enlivened the lone barstool at my kitchenette counter. I stood proudly at hand, watching her attack the similarly round and cute cappuccino-coconut scoop I’d served up. I ate slowly, for my part, letting small spoonfuls melt on my tongue. Millicent teased me about wandering the Upper East Side with a pint of ice cream, hoping to pick up women.

How and why had I forgotten that I was in love with her? Watching her smile and laugh in my kitchen seemed to make the complexities and ambivalence melt away like the ice cream, to put me in touch once more with uncomplicated lust and straightforward emotions. Again I let impulse guide me.

“You owe me, Millicent. I’ve been back for two years, and you haven’t jumped my sexy bones.”

She gaped, her spoon frozen in action. “You remember I said that?”

“Of course I do.” For a year or two in Pittsburgh, I’d used that memory as a sail.

“I wonder what else you remember.”

I helped myself to the flirty curl at the bottom of her retro hairdo. “I remember that this is your natural hair color—and how delicious it looked on you, even when one had to delve deep to find it.”

“That can’t be right,” said Athlete. “Maybe you’re here next Saturday, the 27th?”

Gildi couldn’t help rolling her eyes, but she spoke calmly. “The Student Association arranged it, because I’m performing at your Spring Fling. I think you’re supposed to look in the guest log—assuming you can locate it.”

Freckles & Glasses shook his head. “Nah, the log won’t do any good if it was arranged through the S.A.”

“Do we still have a VIP spreadsheet on the upstairs computer?” asked Black Clothing.

“The spreadsheet wouldn’t reflect an S.A. booking, either,” said Athlete. “They only use that for visiting lecturers—things the faculty liaison sets up.”

“Besides,” said Freckles, “that computer is in the shop.”

“Maybe I should just get a hotel room,” said Gildi. She was beginning to lose patience. Irritation quivered through her above the waist, while her libido continued to pulse below.

“A Thousand Wet Dreams” was published in Desire Presents Fetish magazine in 2010.

The relationships were compartmentalized, weren’t they, thought Dina. Like the pockets of her favorite pair of jeans ... Keys, rigid and ready, always in the right pocket. Soft, fresh tissues, always in the left.

“Phone Support” was published in Forum [UK] magazine in 2010.

The art-department manager had a typical set of goals for this retreat—a glorified camping trip for the art staff. And Alec, always a good sport about corporate nonsense, had resolved to show the proper team spirit.

But much more important to Alec was the personal goal that he’d set.

Alec’s goal was to take things as far as he could with Iris, without crossing the line. No, he couldn’t cross the line—that was of paramount importance—but he was also intent on not leaving any thrills untasted on this side of the line. In the coming days, it was desperately important to him to make the most of the magic of flirtation and the sparkle of play.

“Sorry about the breasts,” he said nervously, stepping to the side so he could face me. I took a peek at the cartoon lady’s cleavage, which I hadn’t noticed before. “I didn’t mean to draw them so large. I don’t want people to decide I’m one of those guys who thinks a woman amounts to a set of breasts.”

I felt a flush in my own, relatively generous, chest. “It’s okay, Ned. Hey, women have breasts. And breasts are nice, right?” I laughed, more self-consciously than I was used to in my workplace.

“Tapping into Theresa” was published at Justus Roux's Erotic Tales in 2010.

Although we burned for each other, we talked for two hours, old pals speaking a new language of lovers, each tremblingly but passionately committed to the step we’d decided to take. Rather than any continuity, I remember moments, pinpoints shining out like fireflies. Each instant was a tableau, with Theresa the vanishing point. Electric fingers of joy emanated from her being, emphasizing her centrality as they shifted and shimmered. Before I’d even kissed her that night, Theresa appeared as the hub of a thousand miracles.

The relationships were compartmentalized, weren’t they, thought Dina. Like the pockets of her favorite pair of jeans ... Keys, rigid and ready, always in the right pocket. Soft, fresh tissues, always in the left.

Regardless of the reason for its condition, this not-quite-empty bottle symbolized one thing to me—unfinished business. To my mind, it was inextricably related to the opening she’d left me when she had departed: “I’ll be up for a while, if you want to call me.” Though she had not been the last to leave, the few remaining partyers had soon said their goodnights. Even after my perfunctory cleanup, I judged that only about fifteen minutes had elapsed since I’d hugged her goodbye.

I swigged the barely significant remnants of Eveline’s beer. In reality it tasted only like flat beer, but I fantasized that it tasted like her. I closed my eyes and imagined smelling it on her breath, as she leaned in close for a kiss.

Monica wanted it both ways: she wanted the intense, dark-chocolate rush of secret satisfactions; and she wanted the frothy strawberry milkshake of showing off—and even, perhaps, the caramel drizzle of being discovered.

“Reflections from the Art Museum” was published at Clean Sheets in 2009.

I soon discovered the thrill of being one layer closer to nakedness among the artworks. I felt I could see the colors and definition better, as if the panties had acted like a semi-opaque blindfold all those years.

Time slows down while conflicting and contradictory thoughts fly back and forth across his mind like bats: She said to. I’m married. It’s mistletoe. Christmas is over. She’s a colleague. She’s comfortable with it. Sharon wouldn’t like it. Sharon would like it.

Jocelyn’s club was housed in an impressive eighteenth-century building in a quiet street. The moon came out from behind clouds just as the couple arrived, and its glow gave the staid facade an exciting aura of promise.

They were elegantly attired. “There’s no specific dress code,” Jocelyn had explained. “Most people just find something dramatic or glamorous to wear—you’ll see why.”